


Three Times the Fool

by foreignobjecticus



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Misunderstandings, Piercings, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26026051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreignobjecticus/pseuds/foreignobjecticus
Summary: REBELS AND FOOLS #4: Avon asks for Vila’s help on shore leave and falls victim to the Delta’s poorly thought-out trick. When he turns it back on Vila, things go much more  differently than he expects.
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Vila Restal
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Rebels and Fools





	Three Times the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> A contribution to the wonderful Rebels and Fools fanzine. Check out the full issue jam-packed full of fantastic artwork and even more lovely fic here: https://rebelsandfools.tumblr.com/post/626427012368793600/rebels-and-fools-issue-4
> 
> Artwork by the incredibly talented Hadescavedish on Tumblr. Thank you for drawing such _beautiful beautiful_ works & the inspiration!

Vila was positively elated when Blake caved in.

“Ten WHOLE DAYS at Teira-12?” his eyes shot open as wide as the grin on his face. “You wouldn’t be pulling my leg now, would you Blake?”

On the deck below, Blake chuckled and smiled up at Vila.

“ _Five_ days each. We’ll alternate our shore leave; I want the ship manned at all times.”

“Of course,” Vila nodded solemnly.

“And teleport bracelets are to be kept on at all times.”

“Naturally.”

“With check ins every six hours.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“And you’re not to take anything from the hold to barter with.”

“ _What!_ ”

“Nor is there to be any embezzlement from the local banking system.”

“Are we being let on holiday or down to a penal camp, Blake?” Avon spoke up for the first time, meeting Blake’s knowing look with a glare.

“Next I suppose you’ll tell me I can’t pick pockets either...” Vila moaned.

“The Teiras might greet travellers with open arms, but they don’t take kindly to crime on their planet. If you find yourself in a cell or with a bounty on your heads, I’m only collecting you if I can teleport you back up.”

“You won’t leave us on Teira-12!”

Blake cocked his head and gave Vila a look that very clearly said ‘try it and find out’. Vila had seen that look on Blake before, and he believed it.

“Fine. I guess I’ll just have to make my own fun then,” Vila threw his hands up and mirrored Blake’s folded arms. “A man can have a good time on a pleasure planet without money.”

“As long as everyone is consenting,” Avon murmured loud enough for Vila to hear. Vila shot him a withering look. 

“You, Avon and Cally can take the first day, and Jenna, Gan and I will go down tomorrow… provided you are back on time.”

“With our teleport bracelets on, I doubt that will be an issue,” Avon drawled, casting a sideways glance at the weapons console. Vila bristled.

“That was _one time!_ ” he cried out, recalling his last shore leave with a barely-suppressed grin. “Miranda was a hell of a woman… you wouldn’t have wanted her to accidentally crush the bracelet now, would you? There aren’t too many more of them left!”

“Vila, you will be teleported back to the ship at 9am local time exactly and I don’t care how many imaginary giant alien women you’re under when we do it. Understood?”

“You take that back! Miranda was real, alright! I couldn’t walk straight for a week…”

“Thank you, Blake. We understand,” Cally cut in before Vila got carried away. Giving her console one last check, she stepped down from her post. “We will be in orbit around Teira-12 in thirty minutes. If you hurry, Vila, we can leave right away and get an extra hour to ourselves.”

Vila’s eyes had been far away, evidently remembering the buxom Miranda, but at Cally’s words, he hurtled himself back into reality. An extra hour?

“Well let’s get going, then!”

**********

Avon, Vila and Cally teleported to the surface of Teira-12, declared themselves down and safe, and parted without another word to each other. It was rare that any crew took their leave together; after almost three months stuck in close quarters with one another, it was a relief to finally get some time alone. As Avon stood, taking in the main street, he saw Cally wander towards a row of market stalls that exuded pungent incense. She ducked into a small shopfront and was swallowed whole by the sound of tinkling silver bells and coins.

Vila, on the other hand, disappeared down a dark, narrow lane that ran off the street and into an area that looked about as reputable as anything Avon expected the Delta to frequent. It was more than likely, Avon thought with a haughty sneer, that Vila was off to get laid for a few credits. The idea had crossed Avon’s mind too, back when they were preparing to teleport, but he doubted he had the stomach to risk any of the establishments on this planet. No – he wasn’t that desperate anyway, he resolved as he watched two attractive, petite young women browsing at a market stall, all alluring in soft silks that hugged their hips and breasts.

A paid fuck was an easy way to find five minutes of pleasure, make yourself fifty credits lighter, and then (probably here, at least) endure five months of regret getting over the itch you’d picked up for your troubles. It wasn’t Avon’s style. _And besides-_ he gazed into the bars and clubs he passed as he walked down the main street; jazz bars, karaoke bars, restaurants, and nightclubs filled with strong, sturdy men who looked as if they could haul you off without breaking a sweat. Avon looked on appreciatively at the way one of the men’s shirts seemed just about ready to split over the strain of his pectorals. _Oh yes, there are plenty of ways to play the game fairly._ Tonight, he’d find fun the old-fashioned way.

That evening, Avon found himself in a lively bar in the centre of the market street. A quiet meal alone gave him time to survey the scene and, by the time he’d finished his plate and two mysteriously sweet drinks, he was ready to mingle.

Unfortunately, the confidence with which he’d started quickly evaporated in the face of repeated rejections. Avon floated around the bar, throwing out furtive glances at the various woman that struck his fancy and practically eye-fucking the handful of men that suited his particular tastes, but the few interested looks he’d managed to attract, when chased, had turned into cold shoulders, slaps, and, in the case of one particularly feisty blonde, a drink to the face.

Wet and irritated, Avon planted himself at the bar to refuel and was mortified to rub shoulders with a familiar suede tunic.

“Hello Avon! Didn’t think I’d see you here!” Vila’s cheeriness indicated he’d already had a few, and Avon clearly not enough. “Say, what happened to your shirt?”

Avon watched the bartender place a cold, bubbling cocktail down and took it before Vila could catch him.

“When did you get here?” Avon asked, more to cut off Vila’s protest than because he actually cared. 

“About an hour ago. I went back up to the ship to change,” he indicated his outfit with a wave and Avon’s gaze was drawn down past Vila’s soft blue tunic to shining patent leather trousers that encased his surprisingly shapely legs… He cocked his head in an appreciative manner.

“Well, don’t you scrub up nicely?” Avon mocked, sipping his drink and taking the chance to run his eyes over Vila’s legs once more. When he reached the bottom, he noticed a rather provocative pair of matching calf-high boots. He felt a little flutter in his stomach and chalked it up to the drink.

“No luck so far, I’m guessing?” Vila smiled sweetly and called for another drink. Usually, Avon’s entitled Alpha attitude would have bothered Vila, but seeing as their cocky old computer tech had clearly come up empty-handed so far, he was feeling a touch more smug than usual.

“Maybe I can help you,” Vila turned to lean against the bar. “What are you after? Birds, lads, babes-”

Even in the semi-darkness, Avon’s hooded scowl was enough to quash Vila’s zeal. He curled back into the bar and retrieved his drink.

“Yeah, well, don’t say I didn’t offer,” Vila tucked his hand under his arm and sipped petulantly. “You’ll be upset when I’ve pulled some lovely ladies and you’re still here nursing my drink and a soggy tunic.”

Something about seeing Vila pouting must have tickled Avon then, as he grinned above the rim of his glass and settled himself much more casually against the bar.

“Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, Vila, but I haven’t seen any gigantic ladies here tonight; or perhaps if there are any, they’re all sitting down.”

“Oh hardy ha, Avon,” Vila made a show of swallowing half his drink in one go. The pleasant buzz that surged into his gut gave him a shot of confidence and he stood up, straightened his tunic, and looked out confidently into the growing crowd. “I’m after any nice young things I can get tonight.”

“Question is, are they after you?”

Vila abandoned Avon to his contrary mood and disappeared into the crowd shortly after. Imbued with renewed determination, Avon made another go of the room, wending his way through the crush of bodies and finding it increasingly hard to corner anyone who caught his eye. In a spurt of alcohol-fuelled courage, he even tried chatting up a well-endowed alien woman who looked as if she could have nursed half the bar on one breast alone, but had to retreat when a larger, fiercer looking male barged in on their conversation.

Finding himself back at the bar with a strong drink felt rather discouraging. Vila finding Avon back at the bar with a strong drink felt positively _humiliating_.

“Av’n!” Vila’s ecstatic voice cried out over the crowd, but when Avon turned from the bar, he couldn’t find the little thief anywhere. That is, until a gaggle of tall ladies ambled up awkwardly, walking as if they were tethered together. And in the middle of them, practically smothered-

“Breena and Fil and Zora and I are going to, uh-” he looked between the girls and trailed off. “Just so you know. Don’t wait up.”

“ _Keep your bracelet on…_ ”

Avon slumped back across the bar and downed his drink in one go.

**********

Vila appeared on the Flight Deck well into his watch the next afternoon, whistling an off-colour Delta tune.

“Where the hell have you been?” Avon growled from above, swerving between the consoles checking readouts Vila was sure were highly unimportant.

“Am I late?” he frowned, pulling back his sleeve to examine his watch.

“ _Yes_.”

“Ah, well-” Vila snapped the watch from his wrist and gave it a shake, “-can’t always palm a good one, can you?”

Avon ignored him.

“So, how’d you do last night?” the thief sauntered up to meet Avon at the pilot console, his lips pursed to whistle again until he caught the look Avon was giving him.

“Oh, uh, bad luck,” he commiserated instead. Despite the prickly scowl Avon gave him, Vila did feel a little sorry for him. The poor man had been giving it his all last night, and to come up empty-handed seemed a bit rough even for someone like him.

“You know, I could have shared one of my lovely ladies with you… Brill or Zeena… Deena? Maybe tomorrow night?”

Avon winced and hammered a few buttons on his console pointlessly.

“No thank you.” He hoped his tone put across the idea that _No_ , he wouldn’t need Vila’s pity because he was confident he’d have a better night tomorrow, but he’d hardly convinced himself. Brooding on the flight deck all morning hadn’t helped bolster him either.

“Not keen on ladies then?” Vila fished. Avon looked up, a toothy side-grin on his face.

“On the contrary. But ‘seven foot tall and liable to crush a man’ are not traits I find all that attractive. Frankly, I don’t know how you keep ending up with these women.”

“They think I’m cute,” Vila adjusted his tunic haughtily. “Anyway, doesn’t really matter _what_ they think of me so long as they’re happy to have my arm around them. What’s it to you?”

The offhand question caught Avon like a slap to the face, and the little niggling thought he’d had brewing in his mind came to the fore before he could think better of it.

“I want to know how you did it.”

Vila’s mouth dropped open.

“You- you want _my_ advice?”

Avon swallowed and steeled himself the way he should have done six seconds ago.

“Yes. Despite looking like you do, you have some idea of how to behave in the degenerate establishments on this planet. The social nuances of the lower grades are clearly lost on me. Naturally then, in order to have any chance of success, I will have to act,” Avon grimaced, “ _more like you_.”

After a few moments of shock, Vila roused himself with a little shake. A plan was forming quicker in his mind than the smile blossoming on his face.

“Can’t be done,” he mocked with a tilt of his head. “Old Kerr Avon shucking the Alpha grading and humbling himself to pull a bit of rough? I’ll believe it when I see it, I think.”

“Yes, it does seem beyond comprehension, but if it means a successful chance of ‘ _pulling’_ , then perhaps it wouldn’t be beyond my abilities. I am, generally speaking, willing to stoop to less than savoury tactics should the means justify the ends.”

Vila held back a snort.

“Stop talking like that for starters! And you’ll need a change of clothes.”

Avon scowled.

“The Liberator’s clothing stores are sure to prove adequate-”

“The Liberator’s clothes are awful, Avon!” Vila waved a hand at his own multicoloured tunic. “Did you see anyone dressed like this down at the bars last night?”

“I’ve never seen anyone dressed as poorly as you are now, Vila.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who just asked me to tart them up for the ladies.”

“I said nothing so crass,” Avon replied sharply. “I asked you to help me act like a Delta.”

“And how’re you going to do that without looking the part? Trust me, Avon – it’s all about looks.”

A reluctant sigh passed over Avon’s lips and wondered to himself whether this were the start of a very, very bad idea. He looked impatiently at Vila through his long lashes.

“Right, look-” Vila tapped the side of his nose, “-leave it to me and I’ll have it all worked out by tomorrow.” He gave Avon a mischievous grin and made to leave the flight deck.

“Vila!”

“What?” he whirled, smile melting off his face when Avon rounded on him and assumed a grin of his own. The older man jabbed a finger at his chest and purred.

“You won’t get out of watch that easily. Do your thinking _here_.”

With that, Avon spun on his heel and marched away. Vila swore lightly.

Ambling up to the pilot’s console, Vila waited until he was sure Avon was gone and then clapped his hands together with an excited whoop of joy.

What an opportunity! To think – the chance to get Avon looking _just_ the way Vila liked.

 _He’d look lovely in a pair of nice tight trousers_ , Vila smirked to himself, _with something fitted on top to show off his slim waist_. Avon had a fine figure underneath his terrible fashion sense (Vila would admit to a peek or two back on the London; he was human, after all). But he’d never held out any hope; straight as they made ‘em in the Alpha domes, Avon was. It was pretty obvious too. What had that woman’s name been? _Meegat?_ Yes. Avon had been drooling over her – well, not drooling. Avon probably didn’t know how to do that. But the simpering thing, kneeling at his feet, going all misty-eyed for him and calling him a god... Of course, _Lord Avon_ had eaten it up. That’s the type he liked; Vila was sure of it.

It was a shame, really. Honestly, if he thought he’d had even a ghost of a chance, Vila might have tried something by now, but it was painfully obvious to anyone who knew him: Avon was straight, and with the way he acted around Vila, even if he _were_ gay, there was little hope he would be interested in the Liberator’s resident idiot. 

Well, with his scheme in mind, Avon would have a hard time finding any precious little women to crawl willingly into his lap. Vila was going to make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime chance. Avon – with his outfit totally under Vila’s control... A cunning smile curled on his lips. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

The next afternoon, Vila guided Avon down the same alleys he’d disappeared into on his first day’s leave, past a variety of questionable shopfronts and out onto a smaller plaza. Rounding on Avon, he thrust a hand out towards a large, garish-looking shop, ushering his charge in.

“Come on, come on, we haven’t got all day!” he called out, tapping a foot impatiently while Avon caught up, head turned towards the unsavoury store in question. He gave the place one look at rooted himself to the spot.

“I’m not going in there.”

Vila’s face fell.

“What?”

“It’s an erotica store. You seriously expected that I would just walk into a sex shop and let you dress me up in leather and lace?” If Avon hadn’t sounded like he was ready to murder Vila, those words coming from his mouth would have driven him into hysterics. _Avon in lace – imagine it!_ But the frigid glare Vila received stopped him from making any stupid mistakes. If he wanted to have any hope of this working, he was going to have to convince Avon. Turning on the old trickster’s charm, Vila curled his lips into a smile and came forward to sling an arm over Avon’s cold shoulder.

“Avon, Avon, Avon,” he drawled, recovering quickly when Avon dumped his arm off. “I told you why the ladies aren’t interested. These clothes,” he flicked at the buttons adorning the front of Avon’s tunic, earning himself a slap on the hand. “You look like a walking toaster! And that silver and green stripy thing you were wearing last night? Honestly, I can’t believe you tried going out in that.”

Avon cocked an eyebrow and looked down at his grey buttoned tunic. Could it really be that bad? Frankly, he’d always thought the grey and black shoulder pads were rather in style, though judging by the outfits he’d seen in the bar, maybe Vila had a point.

“What about my silver tunic?” he asked defensively. Vila shrugged.

“It’s better, but you’re not going to wow anyone. Pulling at the bar is like performing; you’ve got to look the part, not just act all delicious and hope some fish will come up to nibble. That’s why we’re here.” Vila turned to gesture grandly at the shop again and opened the door for Avon. Squaring his shoulders, Avon huffed and walked inside.

Vila laid a pile of carefully-selected clothes on the changing room bench and watched as Avon picked up the first leather tunic on the pile and tossed it aside.

“If this is a trick to humiliate me, Vila, it’s very transparent.” He picked up the next tunic and, noticing the see-through panels on the arms, hastily relegated it to the discard pile.

“Would I do something like- oh, yes, well. It’s not, Avon, I swear; remember what I said? You’ve gotta look like the locals. Dress in something modern, popular, make the ladies swoon from across the bar.”

“Yes Vila, somehow I think they _would_ ,” Avon growled, holding up the pair of assless chaps Vila had snuck into the pile. Vila smirked.

“Yeah, well, that one was a joke,” he shrugged it off, disappointed when the pants joined the quickly growing pile on the floor.

“They’re all a joke-”

“Just _try_ some of them, Avon – come on,” Vila pouted. _He could at least try to play along._ “Here,” Vila pulled out a long black tunic from the pile. “This is pretty conservative, even for your tastes. Just put it on and see if it fits,” he pleaded, affecting a little whine which seemed to work. He’d have to remember that for later. With a resigned shrug, Avon took the tunic from Vila’s hands and pulled the changing room curtain over.

“You stay put,” he called out from the changing room. Through the gap between the curtain and the wall, Vila caught a tantalising glimpse of white skin as Avon changed.

“Wouldn’t dream of leaving…” he murmured back. 

“Well, what do you think?” Vila asked, straightening up to get a good view of Avon as he emerged dressed in the long black studded tunic. This one was clearly too small for Avon, and he shifted his arms uncomfortably while he looked in the mirror.

“I feel absurd,” Avon growled and pulled at the leather clinging to his chest. “And this chafes.”

“Did you keep your undershirt on?” Vila asked as he fussed with some studs Avon had missed on his neck.

“No.”

“Well there’s your problem! It’ll be more comfortable with an undershirt,” he explained, smoothing down the soft, pre-worn leather with his palms. “Stops your nipples rubbing-”

Avon threw Vila’s roaming hands off his chest violently, stepping back into the changing room before he could be humiliated any further.

“This was a mistake,” Avon snarled and fought with the curtain that wouldn’t pull back over. “I was a fool to ask you for advice-”

“I’m not pulling your leg Avon!” Vila jumped forward, arresting Avon’s hand. “Honest.” His fingers were crossed behind his back, just in case.

Up this close, Vila could smell the leather against Avon’s hot skin. It fit like a glove, and with the remaining buttons done up his neck, hid all but the most delicious sliver of skin from view. Vila gulped and took a very decisive step backwards.

“Why don’t you like it?”

“It’s got far too many buttons. I feel like the primary console in Sub-Control Two.”

“Right,” Vila nodded, casting his eyes back across the shop. “You get out of that and I’ll bring you something with less buttons.”

“And no spikes.”

Vila cursed under his breath.

After two hours of bickering, Avon finally relented and agreed to just one outfit. With its short cut and clean, uniform row of studs down the arms and across the chest, the second black tunic Vila had found was conservative enough that Avon even went so far as to say he _liked_ it, and Vila could have jumped for joy. Coupled with some lovely tight leather pants he’d managed to convince Avon into, the ensemble was _perfect_ , and Vila felt a little giddy as they left the shop. Avon was going to look rough, tough, and most importantly, manly. Truth be told, Vila thought he looked _ravishing_ , but then that was the point.

**********

All kitted up, Vila and Avon made their way to a quaint little jazz club nestled in between some buildings off the main street. Figuring the place would be something Avon would choose himself, Vila was pleased when he seemed to melt into the mellow music and carry himself away.

While he let Avon roam, Vila strayed over to the band and got lucky with pair of dark-haired young things who seemed more than happy to let him insinuate himself between their laps in a cramped little booth. The hypnotic quality of the jazz made Vila’s foray into fumbling hands, hot lips and eager tongues seem like a dream, and when he finally slipped away from his captors’ grasps, he felt lighter and more than a trifle dizzy. Looking back as he left, he noticed a haze of white smoke and wondered how much of it had been real. Though his uncomfortably moist trousers gave him a clue.

Back at the bar, Vila spotted his little leather-clad experiment braced against the bar top.

“Thought this’d be up your alley.” Vila appeared at Avon’s side, a drink in his hand from gods knew where. “No luck?” He sipped surreptitiously but couldn’t hide the smile on his lips (in part because he’d managed to spill some of the liquid down his front.)

“Less than you by the look of it,” Avon replied icily, staring longingly at Vila’s neck and the obvious, exposed flush of an enormous red love bite along his jaw. “Or perhaps I’m mistaken and you’ve been attacked by a Tinuvian blood worm.”

“Oh uh, yeah. Maybe you should have been watching me or something.”

Avon’s scowl could have melted Herculaneum.

“ _I was._ ”

Vila’s stomach sank and he remembered the look of the man that had given him a hand job; all soft sculpted lips and hooded eyes, short black hair and leather vest – in the haze of whatever drug had been lingering in the air, Vila remembered he’d looked a bit like- _shit_.

Avon didn’t stick around to mock him, and that spoke more than any harsh words would have.

Grimly determined not to be bested by Vila yet again, Avon turned his attention back to the club and a lone pair of girls making eyes and giggling at him. He needed something soft and sweet to cheer him up.

And then he approached and realised they were laughing at him.

Avon sank away into the background and tried not to dwell on the utterly miserable evening he’d had so far. True, he’d attracted far more attention with the new outfit, and from a variety of people to boot (some he’d even been interested enough to almost accept), but so far there had been no luck to be had with the _ladies_ Vila had been carrying on about.

Despite being thin on the ground, it seemed like every large hairy man in the club had tried it on with him tonight, though he couldn’t guess why. After one more come-on by some young man for a change (a boy, really; _pretty, but far too skinny_ ), Avon had had his fill of alcohol and was ready to call it a night.

Resigned, he found Vila up at the bar and slid into a seat beside him.

“Would you look at that!” Vila called out animatedly and sloshed his drink in the direction of a couple huddled discreetly in a booth near the back. “Cally’s having a bit of fun!”

Avon whipped around to glare, but all that was visible in the dim club was a blonde quaff of hair and brown curls being fingered by a very dedicated pair of hands. Avon reached for Vila’s wrist and tugged back his sleeve to read the thief’s newest watch. Was it 9am yet?

**********

Cally stepped away from the teleport area slowly and clearly distracted. With one hand raised to her temple and a far-away look on her face, Avon guessed she was probably saying goodbye to her gentleman friend. Vila looked giddy too, still stupidly drunk, and Avon wished he were showered and in bed already.

At the teleport console, Gan coughed roughly and tried to look anywhere but at Avon. Vila blanched, seeing the shock on Gan’s face – the poor man clearly hadn’t been ready to see Avon wrapped in tight black leather, and Vila suddenly realised that getting Avon back on board meant all the others seeing what he’d stuffed the man into. Vila gulped.

“That’s… new,” Gan blushed and ducked his head. “Did you go to a, erm-”

Anticipating the words he was too prudish to say, but not daring enough to risk it, Vila gave the giant a thwack to his hard gut. “-costume party?” Gan tried to save himself.

Vila dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

“Even our dear sweet Gan thinks it’s nothing more than a costume,” Avon sneered, sliding his teleport bracelet away with entirely too much force.

“I mean to say, it looks good!” Gan shrugged, looking between the two men, and then decided it was better he shut his mouth before he dug himself in any further.

Avon stomped out of the teleport room. Unfortunately, the walk back to his cabin meant crossing the flight deck, and there was no way to do that without being seen. Maybe if he was lucky, it would only be Jenna on duty.

But Avon hadn’t been lucky yet.

“Welcome back.” They heard Blake’s voice long before he came into view. Standing at the rear console, he appeared to be talking to Cally when the others entered. The smile on Cally’s face had been hard to miss and Blake was curious to extract the source of that grin from the Auron - that is, until all clear thoughts seemed to trickle out of his head at the sight of the man in leathers. Blake turned fully towards the starboard corridor, staring as Avon came to a stop on the mid-deck and folded his arms, glaring at the others. Cally’s enthusiastic voice trailed off. Seeing what had commandeered Blake’s attention so abruptly, she grinned.

Blake’s lips parted and his eyes widened slightly, an uncharacteristic flush rising up his neck. A barrage of mental images made it hard to think for a few seconds, and he spluttered as he realised he was making an ass of himself. Words scurried over themselves to form some sort of coherent strain on his tongue, and he jabbered them out in a poor imitation of Federation English.

“That’s a really- Quite historical – I’ve seen them wearing that- History books-” he shook himself mentally and squared his shoulders. “I mean to say, you look-” _dangerous, delectable, constricted, poured into those pants, absolutely mind-numbingly ravishing,_ “sharp.”

The adjective fell flat even on Avon’s ears and he hissed at the ineloquence.

“Thank you for your invaluable input, Blake. Next time you can submit it in writing, as clearly your oral skills still need improvement.”

“You had a good night then?” Blake squeaked out, scrabbling to regain control of his voice and push past the awkward hole he’d dug for himself. The blatant innuendo of Avon’s comment only caught up with him after he’d nearly shut down all the short-range scanners while trying to look busy pressing buttons at random at his console.

Miraculously, Avon was actually avoiding their usual repartee in favour of crossing the flight deck as quickly as possible. He circumnavigated the sofas, walking at an angle that he hoped looked natural, but to the others it was obvious he was trying to hide the tight curve of his arse clad in shining black. Shame.

“I can’t believe you got him into that outfit!” Jenna burst out as she cornered Vila in the teleport bay not long later.

“Neither can I!” Vila snickered, eyes gleaming. He was still buzzing a bit with the alcohol and his fatigue at having stayed out so late, so it took him a few moments to comprehend the knowing smile on Jenna’s face.

“Hey! What makes you think I got him to wear that outfit? He could have picked it out himself, you know.”

Jenna held back a snort.

“Honestly Vila; you might be a good thief but you’re a terrible liar. Avon wouldn’t get himself into skin-tight leathers unless he were possessed or someone put him up to it. Though I can’t imagine how you did it,” she intoned, leaning casually against the teleport bracelet rack and batting her eyes.

“Oh yes, very clever. You won’t get it out of me, Jenna,” Vila dropped himself behind the console and checked the coordinates. In front of him, Jenna toyed with a bracelet and smiled into her chest.

“You know, all he’s missing now is an earring.” She looked up into Vila’s face and held back a laugh.

“An earring?” The implication wasn’t lost on Vila, but he feigned ignorance all the same. 

“That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it; getting him all dolled up for the manly men?” Jenna snapped the bracelet around her wrist and came forward. “He looks like a spaceport hooker, Vila – and he clearly doesn’t even know it!”

It was a bit of a shock for Vila to find their pilot so enthused by his little game until he recalled that Jenna _had_ used to be a smuggler.

He hadn’t thought of it that way, but now that Jenna had mentioned it, the similarities were all too clear; Vila had dressed Avon up like a ten credit touch, whether intentionally or not.

“That’s the Alpha for you; too insulated. If he’d had a lick of experience in the Delta domes, he’d have gotten wise to the whole charade when I brought him the first leather crop top.”

Jenna choked on her laugh as Gan and Blake reached the teleport bay.

**********

All around him, Vila watched the eyes of men turning towards Avon, and he smiled to himself, toasting his success. This colourful little nightclub Vila had picked for them tonight was a much better choice than the jazz club the night before. Here, Avon’s outfit was working like a charm.

Watching as he was, Vila’s heart skipped a beat when a gargantuan man stomped up behind Avon. Even from this distance, Vila could see the shock on Avon’s face at the sight of the huge, bearded man towering over him. Vila giggled behind his glass and took a sip, then choked at Avon’s perturbed grimace as he escaped his admirer. Clearly, the eight-foot tall behemoth had said something that rattled Avon, and the face of undisguised horror Avon had worn when he’d turned around was enough to scare Vila stiff too.

The alcohol he inhaled seared his throat and Vila was still wheezing when a glass of water appeared before him. He swallowed it in spluttering gulps.

“Drinking and breathing are two different activities, Vila.”

“Are you alright?” he asked, unfiltered, and blanched. He felt suddenly unaccountably guilty.

“Are you?” Avon quirked an eyebrow and turned from Vila to find a drink placed at his elbow by the bartender (“ _From the gentleman in the corner,_ ” he explained. Avon didn’t look).

“I’m fine.” Vila shook his head and dared another sip from his drink, clearing his throat. By the time he’d recovered, Avon was off again. He cursed.

Vila spent the rest of the evening planted at the bar, watching Avon hover around the room. As the night wore on, he stopped being able to count the number of people Avon had approach him, men and – well, Vila assumed women, but it was hard to tell in the dim light and this wasn’t really the sort of place that seemed to bother with that sort of distinction anyway.

Three more failed flirting attempts and a damp, sticky tunic later, Avon was back at the bar beside Vila nursing his collection of drinks and his pride.

“Cheer up, Avon,” Vila slurred a little, plucking something yellow from Avon’s selection of melting drinks just as the bartender placed a ridiculous chocolate milkshake in front of Avon, clearly starting to feel a little awkward about the situation as well. Avon sneered at the mountain of whipped cream and flicked the cherry off petulantly.

“I have had three rejections, _made_ twenty-two rejections, and one person has asked me how much for a quickie in the lavatories,” Avon turned on Vila, eyes narrowed and a frown across his pretty face. “Do not tell _me_ to cheer up.” He turned back to the bar and fiddled with his drinks, trying a sip of something green and wincing in distaste.

“I think maybe you don’t quite look the part, still.” Sensing Avon’s patience wearing thin, Vila turned and buried his nose in his frozen margarita.

“ _Don’t look the part?_ What was all this leather for, then!” Avon hissed, pulling at the shining leather around his thighs. When Vila finally resurfaced (nose wet and glistening), he made an obvious survey of the room, drawing Avon’s gaze with him.

“Look around, Avon. You’re all black and brooding-” that wasn’t entirely true tonight, but he pressed on, “- whereas everyone else here is dressed up. Look at that guy over there-” Vila pointed to a man covered in tattoos and piercings, crammed into a little booth with four other men and women. One was pressing kisses down the man’s tattooed neck, while another was tonguing a little silver earring with dedication-

Avon looked disgusted.

“What about them?”

“Oh, well, you know-” Vila’s head snapped back to Avon abruptly, and he realised he’d quite forgotten the point he was trying to make.

“I am _not_ dying my hair bright blue. Don’t be absurd.”

“No, actually I was thinking,” he took a forced sip from something he thought might be a martini, “maybe some jewellery would make you stand out more. Can’t go wrong with a tasteful little piercing. I used to have one once.”

“Wonders never cease.”

Avon drained his glass and slipped off his seat unsteadily. Vila’s face dropped.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” he knocked back his own drink in a rush, watching with horror as Avon found himself being eyed up by another tall man, this time in a billowing tan robe not unlike something Gan favoured. Avon made a dash for the exit before he was enveloped, and Vila chased after him.

Vila caught up just outside, grabbing clumsily at Avon’s shoulder, and he pressed them both back into the alley wall.

“Get off, Vila; I’m going home,” Avon pushed back, but he was pinned between cold stone and Vila’s hot body. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant. Breathless and gasping, Vila realised Avon was panting too, and his legs turned weak as his inebriated mind caught up with him. Avon’s breath skittered over his face. _Gods, just one good man to turn him and I could kiss those li-_

“Get off-”

“No, Avon, wait,” Vila gulped and straightened up. “There’s still time left. Hear me out.”

Avon plucked the hand off his chest and Vila let it fall to his side unnoticed, following as Avon pushed from the wall and strode off down the alley. The booze at the bar had mellowed him, and Vila was very quickly learning just how far to push Avon, and when and where… Vila went after him.

“It worked wonders, you know,” he carried on, voice high as he tried to make himself sound aloof. The idea of convincing Avon to get a piercing had seemed impossible when he spoke to Jenna two days ago, but now that opportunity had struck- “The earring, I mean.”

“You’re telling me Vila Restal had _just_ an innocent little ear piercing?” Avon sneered, and even in the dark Vila could see his white teeth bared. It looked good against his shining silver studs.

“Alright, I had more than an earring, but that’s not what I was suggesting! Besides,” Vila couldn’t help dropping back a step to give Avon the once-over from behind. “There’d be no point in a nipple piercing underneath all that leather. Sure, you’d see it,” _poking out from the tight leather across your chest,_ “but then the ladies’d have to get you out of this.” Vila reached out to finger the row of studs that ran down Avon’s arm. At the end of the alley now, Avon stopped abruptly and Vila ran into him. Avon’s face twisted in the light. Prepared for another verbal barrage, Vila was pleasantly surprised to find Avon’s brow was knitted not in frustration, but as if he were thinking.

“Wouldn’t it be rather effeminate?” he mused aloud.

“Not if you just got one side done. A little stud, I reckon, to match your leathers. Right here,” Vila captured the lobe of Avon’s right ear between his thumb and forefinger. “Just a little pinch and it’s done.” Belatedly realising what he was doing, Vila jerked his hand away as if it had been burnt.

“Alright, fine.”

Vila hadn’t expected it to be so easy.

“What?”

“I’ll try it. If I don’t like it, I can always use a tissue regenerator on it in the morning.”

 _Very practical_ , Vila thought.

“It is,” Avon replied, and Vila blanched when he realised he’d said that out loud.

“Well?” Avon crossed his arms, impatient and imposing as ever despite a slight sway. Clearly the dozen different cocktails had done their job.

“Well what?” Vila parroted dumbly.

“I am not letting you stick a lockpick needle through my ear; we need a proper piercing shop. I’m sure this planet is just _teeming_ with them.”

“Oh!” Vila perked up and ran a hand through his hair, glancing up and down the street. He had seen a parlour when they came down, hadn’t he? “There was one before.” He was relieved when Avon turned decisively to his left and began a confident march down the road. At least one of them remembered where they were going.

The tattoo and piercing parlour was unremarkable, plastered with pictures of ornate tattoos and graphic, intimate piercings just like every other parlour Vila had ever been in. Stepping inside, Avon’s resolution wavered, and Vila ran directly into his back. 

“This place looks…” Avon baulked at the advertisements of Prince Alberts proudly stapled to the wall, and nearly ran when he saw what was happening to the whimpering man in an alcove off the main room.

“This place is fine,” Vila slung an arm around Avon’s shoulders partly to reassure him and partly to make sure he didn’t run away screaming. “Fine establishment indeed!” he said a little louder, looking at the beautiful alien woman at the counter, her blue skin accentuated by the gaudy neon lights.

“Evening gentlemen.”

By the tone of her voice, Avon guessed she’d probably been working all night. Vila slapped on his most charming smile and dragged Avon forward by the shoulders.

“Why hello there,” he affected a nod and a wink that, to Avon, looked ridiculous, which was why he was so surprised when the woman actually smiled. _Gods, what is it with the women on Teira-12?!_

“What can I do for you?”

“We’re looking for a piercing. Just one, right here,” Vila slipped his arm around to capture Avon’s earlobe. “Something tasteful, you know – a little silver stud.”

“How much?” Avon gritted out, jerking his ear free and giving Vila a look. _Keep your mouth shut for twenty minutes – and your trousers on!_

“25 credits, 30 if you scream,” the woman looked between the two of them and frowned. Evidently, she hadn’t liked what Vila had said, though in his current frame of mind, Avon could hardly bother considering why. In the alcove beside them, the background whimpering ceased and a gruff voice called out:

“I’ll give you 30 credits to scream, silver studs… _ouch!_ ”

By pure reflex, Vila caught Avon around the waist and dragged him down with all the drunken deadweight he could muster.

“Come on, Avon, get in the chair. Follow the lovely lady.”

Deposited abruptly in a worn, padded chair, Avon found himself feeling rather cast-aside. He watched Vila with half-hearted interest as he flounced around after the woman. Avon realised that he should probably be taking notes, but his stomach was sinking and he didn’t feel he had the courage to keep watching. Vila’s nervous energy made his gut twist unpleasantly, and he realised he was both a far sight drunker than he’d been in years and also not nearly numb enough to endure what was going on around him.

“Sit up straight,” the woman’s soft, alien lilt barely registered to Avon as his mind wandered.

“You heard Tika,” Vila made a show of pulling Avon up under the shoulders. “Up nice and straight now; you don’t want a wonky piercing.”

With the kind of resigned dignity only a truly-sloshed Avon could possess, he allowed himself to be manhandled into a sitting position. He felt a stone-cold gun pressed to his ear, and before Avon had a chance to second-guess himself, there was a sharp pinch and a loud crack.

Avon grimaced, but didn’t flinch.

“You took that well.” Vila was impressed. Somehow, that seemed to mean a lot to Avon, though he couldn’t say why.

“I was shot last month,” he looked Vila in the eye. “I can take a little pain.”

Avon jerked his head away dramatically as Tika poured stinging alcohol over his earlobe.

“You didn’t scream; 25 credits,” she declared, thrusting her hand out in front of Avon and Vila giggled behind his clenched fist.

The streets were eerily quiet when they emerged from the parlour. Beyond a few stumbling drunks, it seemed deserted. Vila glanced back as the pink neon OPEN sign of the parlour flickered out and he noticed the shop hours on the window.

“Shit, Avon, it’s 5am,” Vila turned back around and looked to the sky, expecting to catch a glimpse of morning sun. It couldn’t really be that late… or early?

Fondling his ear delicately, Avon turned to follow Vila’s gaze. Though the sun was still beyond the horizon, the empty street was no liar; they must have been in that bar far longer than either of them realised.

“I suppose so,” he conceded, watching a few more lights along the street switching off. He sighed. So much for his third night. 

**********

Unfortunately for Avon, he was first up for duty the next morning. After only two hours of sleep topped up with adrenaline and some hydration pills, he felt a total mess. Between a very queasy stomach and the niggling headache that was spreading from his temples down into his jaw, he missed Blake’s comical double-take and flinched when the silence of the flight deck was broken by a loud cry.

“Avon, you-”

Avon looked up to see Blake’s mouth open, clearly with some intention to speak, but only managing a few garbled consonants. “Y- wh- s-”

“Your eloquence is only surpassed by your ability to lead a swift and successful revolution.” Avon settled at the computer systems console and frowned. Not his most eloquent retort, he mused. He’d get Blake back later. After a few seconds, he realised that Blake was still grasping for words. His spluttering noises were making Avon nauseous.

“Spit it out!” he snapped irritably. Rubbing his palm over his right temple, Avon’s thumb brushed against his ear and memory returned in a flash. _Oh. That’s right._

“It’s just an earring, Blake. Grow up,” he ground out, hoping it was a convincing approximation of his usual self. Now that he realised he had some cheap metal skewered through his earlobe… The only thing to do was try and convince Blake he had known he had an earring and it wasn’t just _Vila’s_ drunk idea he’d stupidly agreed to a mere couple of hours ago.

“It’s a silver stud-” Blake’s voice sounded strained when he finally managed to articulate himself.

“Your powers of observation are keen this morning. Tell me,” Avon glared up at Blake, “since your perspicacity is seemingly boundless: is there anything to report or are we, as we have been for the past week, safe?”

It had been a considerable mental effort, but Avon’s words were acerbic enough to throw Blake off the matter of his earring. 

“No, everything’s been fine. Full power in all banks, maintaining correct orbit, no incoming communications…”

“Oh good, isn’t that a relief. You can go, Blake, and get ready for teleport,” Avon waved a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’ll take over early.”

“That’s gracious of you.”

“I’m feeling particularly benevolent,” Avon stared down at the controls below him, fiddling with switches and hoping Blake would take the hint and leave. His earlobe twitched as if it knew Blake were watching it. After a few moments, he proved it.

“You know, I had the same thing-”

“What?” Avon’s head whipped around faster than he intended and he winced.

“-when I was in university. I didn’t know-”

“Didn’t know _what?_ ” The throbbing in his head seemed to increase tenfold and he turned back around, slumping into the console chair. This time Blake took the hint. 

“Nothing.”

Blake shuffled off the flight deck with a stiff, awkward gait, and Avon wondered briefly why he took the flight deck’s data pad with him, clutched so low over his stomach, but then again Avon was hungover and didn’t really care.

Deciding that there was little point checking the scanners, Avon wandered down from his console and flung himself onto the sofa, closing his eyes against a vicious wave of regret.

Jenna’s laughter rang out high and clear through the crew room.

“ _Ssssssshhhh!_ Do you want to get us _both_ killed?” Vila shuddered with a suppressed chuckle, feeling smug as Jenna wiped a tear from her eye. He raised his glass of soma to his lips, savouring the taste and wondering just how much more he needed before he’d balanced out the night’s alcohol. A trip to the galley had lifted his spirits after a rather confusingly anticlimactic end to his night, and Vila was still just tipsy enough to be able to bask in the glow. Come time for the evening shift, he might not be in quite the same mood. At least it wasn’t Avon he was due to relieve. 

“How did you convince him to do it?” Jenna said, composing herself remarkably quickly. Vila was still giggling like an idiot. He shrugged.

“Lucky, I guess.”

“Oh don’t give me that, Vila; he would have spat venom if anyone else had suggested an earring! Did you seduce him?”

The blood drained from Vila’s cheeks.

“No!”

“Booze, then?”

“Oh yes, there was plenty of that,” he nodded enthusiastically, trying very hard to recover from Jenna’s offhand comment. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, but-

“What’s the bet you can convince him to get a tramp stamp?”

This time Vila choked.

“Gods, Jenna-!” The shock on his face was only half acting. The thought of Avon’s lower back inked up with some geometric computer glyphs was equal parts amusing, arousing, and utterly horrifying. “And sully that gorgeous backside?” He shook the image of Avon’s arse firmly from his brain. “You’re out of your mind!”

Jenna snorted.

“You’d be too scared to ask him, anyway,” a sneaky smile passed over her lips. “What do you think will happen when he catches on to all this? Avon might be a bit naïve, but he’s not an idiot. Sooner or later he’s going to realise what you’ve been doing.” She gave Vila a knowing look.

“Which is why I’m not willing to put my hard-earned credits down on such a dangerous wager.”

Jenna scoffed again but the smile on her face was genuine enough.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s only thirty-six hours left before we break orbit. I doubt you’d be able to convince him in that time.” She let the words hang in the air between them. Vila recognised her ham-fisted attempt at reverse psychology and brushed it off. He’d had far too many adjustments to fall for something that easily.

“I’ve already done enough, Jenna. I’m all for a joke, but the fun’s over.”

When Avon woke a few hours later, his head was clearer but his ear was throbbing. During his nap, he had rolled over and crushed his earlobe against the sofa cushions. With a hiss, he peeled himself off and laid a tentative finger on his stud to assess the damage, cursing Vila all the while. If he’d been any less drunk and – Avon ruefully admitted – _desperate_ , he wouldn’t have made such a stupid decision, but now Blake had seen the result of his recklessness and there was little he could to do save face.

He regretted asking Vila for help. He really did. Three nights on Teira-12 and all he’d managed to do was get himself covered in leather and drinks. Not one bite. Not one kiss. And yet Vila had-

 _Oh._ Vila hadn’t gotten _anyone_ last night.

 _Well,_ thought Avon, _there’s your proof. His whole scheme is just a fallacy._ To be frank, he should have just asked Orac for help from the beginning.

Resolved, Avon wandered across to Orac and slipped the computer’s key in. It flashed and came to life with a haughty buzz.

“Orac, I need you to give me a full analysis of why Vila's tactics for seeking sexual partners has failed.”

It took a few seconds to respond, whirring irritably.

“Although my powers of observation are acute, I am not able to read minds. Specify the question. Provide examples. What advice has been given thus far?”

“He has advised that I alter my appearance and attitude which I have done.”

“Specify.”

“I have dressed in clothing that is worn by the local population-”

“ _Such as?_ ”

The computer was beginning to get on his very short nerves.

“A leather tunic, leather trousers, leather boots-”

“Ah. So your intention is to attract members of a niche homosexual sub-population. Was that so very hard to specify?” Orac’s lights blinked in an imitation of a petulant huff. “Continue.”

“Wait-” Avon cut it off. That niggling feeling that had been itching beneath his skin came to the fore. “What brought you to that assessment?”

“If you had bothered to do your research on the planet in question, you would know that Teira-12 contains a great variety of cultures from across the known galaxies. Based on Vila Restal’s advice as you have provided to me, combined with the information I have collected while residing on the flight deck, there is a 92.47% chance that your appearance has been specifically engineered to attract homosexual males. If this is not your intention, then I would suggest-”

Avon slipped Orac’s key out, craving the silence that it brought, _needing it_. His earring throbbed painfully, and Avon’s stomach lurched.

_Vila hadn’t gotten anyone last night, and no wonder why; sharing drinks, draped all over Avon, with his hand wandering up to Avon’s ear time and time again as if it had every right to be there._

Avon slammed Orac’s key back in.

“I require information on another aspect of this culture. What is the significance of this?” he held a hand up to his ear and fondled his hot, itching earlobe.

“A single silver stud is a well-known Delta custom which has pervaded most of the Inner and Outer Worlds. A stud, worn in the right earlobe, is a sign of exclusive homosexuality and denotes that the wearer is sexually active and available-”

Avon ripped Orac’s key out, having heard all he needed to know.

“You played a stupid game, Vila,” he clenched the key tight in his hand and shook it, a replacement for Vila’s neck.

It didn’t take much to work out how the idiot had come to dream up such a perverse scheme, Avon thought to himself. _Probably off some baseless Delta rumour that Alphas are uptight and staunchly heterosexual_. He had no idea where Vila could have gotten that idea from, considering how flagrant Blake could be sometimes. Hell, Avon had even flirted with him the other day _in front of Vila_ (just to make Blake uncomfortable, mind).

If Vila had wanted to humiliate him, it had already been a rousing success after the first night, surely? It made little sense, even to a scheme as brainless as Vila’s, to have carried on with the joke for so many nights in a row. _That is, unless it_ isn’t _a joke_.

Realisation dawned on Avon so suddenly, it was if the past three nights had been unlocked in his mind. He recalled stumbled words and glances, Vila’s hand job from the boy with dark eyes and dark hair that looked so like himself Avon had seethed with jealously, and even more tellingly, the lingering touches and presses that he’d put down more to alcohol than any sort of genuine intention on Vila’s part. And just as clearly as Avon remembered that, he felt the giddy realisation of his own churning stomach and erratically beating heart.

Oh, there _was_ a chance that he was wrong. But oddly, Avon found himself-

It had been so long, he didn’t know what to call it. Flattered, probably. Hopeful?

But there wasn’t much chance of _that_.

Still, there were only two nights left, and with the realisation burning through Avon’s veins, he dared to believe there was a sort of guarantee that if he could play Vila’s little game just right, he might yet find himself a bit of enjoyment from his shore leave. There was little to lose from carrying on, and with the way Vila melted into an affectionate, slobbering mess when he was drunk, it would be easy enough to get the shameless Delta where he wanted him. And if opportunity should knock, well… that would be all the better.

**********

Tonight, Vila had scouted out a nondescript little bar nestled between some exotic restaurants. A cut above what they had visited so far, and the people inside were varied enough that there was little chance of Avon being hit on by the same type of people he had on the previous nights.

Avon complained about Vila’s choice, putting little stock in the quiet, moody bar, but shut up once he’d knocked back his first few drinks. Tonight, he seemed to be going at it faster than normal.

“Whoa, slow down,” Vila smirked around his second glass of something blue and fizzy, watching as Avon swallowed a double finger of expensive Earth whisky. “You’re beating me.”

“Then catch up.”

“What are you in such a hurry for anyway?”

“To prepare myself for the same results as the previous two nights. I am not entirely convinced your earring idea is going to change much,” he lied, eyes lingering on Vila’s fingers wrapped around his cold drink, watching the condensation drip over his knuckles. Idly, Avon wondered if he’d get those fingers to touch him before their shore leave ended. A clever thief like Vila had such talented fingers, after all. _Oh_ , Avon realised as a warm buzz hit him, _strong drinks tonight_.

Not unexpectedly, they were interrupted shortly afterward by Avon’s first admirer of the night.

Avon gave the prospective man a once over, long eyelashes fluttering attractively, and sized him up like a jaded professional. _There really isn’t much to be said for the men on Teira-12, is there?_

“Not interested,” he declared in a bored voice and turned back to the bar. When the man shuffled away dejectedly, Vila almost felt sorry for him.

“Poor bloke,” he muttered into his glass.

“If you feel that way, why don’t you give him a go?”

Vila’s shoulders tensed.

“Not my type.”

“No?” Avon twisted his head to the side. “Then what is?”

“Why don’t you give some of them a try, Avon?” Vila asked without looking away from his drink, ignoring Avon’s question and hoping the blue lights around him would hide his blush.

“As you said so yourself, Vila; _I’m only here for the ladies_.” The sneer in Avon’s voice was off-putting, and he used the same face to scare off another man who had been sauntering up in their direction.

Avon remained at the bar for another several drinks, and Vila stayed by his side, matching his pace and keeping an eye on the room behind him. This wasn’t good. If Avon didn’t start picking up different people, the whole trick would be up. With that in mind, Vila made an effort to act as a wingman. Eyeing off women across the room, he coaxed them in with nods, winks and gestures at the fine cut of Avon’s back, but none seemed to really be getting the message. When one particularly enthusiastic young woman came up to Vila with a gleam in her eye, the thief had to quickly slide from his seat and knock her back before Avon caught on.

Nothing got past Avon, though. It wasn’t hard to miss what was happening behind him with the huge mirror wall behind the bar. At first, he was sure Vila was playing another trick on him (he hadn’t noticed the mirror, _really?_ ), and he grew more and more dejected. All Vila seemed to want to do was sit around making eyes at pretty little women, with Avon sitting right next to him. And it hurt, badly, to find that he’d been so wrong. At least he’d realised his error before he’d imbibed enough courage to actually try anything.

Vila had only just returned to his seat when Avon resolved to have it out with Vila. Jealousy and alcohol boiled in his stomach. If Vila was going to be so tactless, he deserved to be brought down a peg. Avon’s anger surged, and he turned rapidly, a thunderous look on his face, just as a hand snaked over Vila’s shoulder.

Both men turned to see the predatory-looking woman from the piercing shop towering over them.

“Vila,” she purred and ran a hand down Vila’s soft black shirt. Vila spluttered drunkenly.

“Tika. Hello- I- You-”

“You don’t mind if I steal him, do you?” she asked Avon, a sultry grin on her lips, and tucked her pink hair behind a pointed ear. Vila stumbled over his words, and Avon could see he’d clearly forgotten about whatever noble solidarity had been keeping him tied to Avon’s side.

Avon planted his elbows on the bar and brought his drink back to his lips.

“Just go.”

And there he was again. The fourth night in a row now, a solitary figure at the bar with nothing but his drink for company.

When the barkeeper wandered in his direction, Avon ordered a bottle of something strong to match the black mood he was falling into. 

Vila was rather obviously straightening out his trousers when he meandered back up to Avon however long later, a self-satisfied grin slathered across his face. Avon wanted to punch it off him. After his sixth drink, he nearly did.

“If she’s anything like her shop, you’ll have caught something nasty from that encounter,” Avon let the warning fall from his lips with a twist of acid which Vila wilfully dismissed in his _wonderful_ mood.

“Your piercing is fine, Av’n. It just itches because you keep touching it,” Vila clapped him on the shoulder and Avon leaned away.

“Get off!” Avon swatted ineffectively at Vila’s hand, and that was the first time Vila noticed it: Avon was drunk. _Really_ drunk. Far worse than when Vila had left him. It hadn’t been all that long, but Vila gawked at the sight of Avon slumped at the bar with a half-empty bottle of booze at his elbow. He couldn't really have drunk that all himself? Vila whisked the bottle away and nearly dropped it when Avon's hands clasped his own.

"Get your own poison, Vila; this is for me for you," he blushed, then wrenched the bottle from Vila's grasp and poured himself another shot before he could fully appreciate what he'd said. 

“What the hell is wrong, Avon?” Vila asked. There was a wet sparkle in Avon’s eye, of something sad, something broken… _and Vila had the horrible feeling he might have been the one who’d put it there_. 

"I'm not mad," Avon said petulantly, putting the bottle down with a thump. Vila’s hand shot out to steady it when it almost fell. "I was before. Incredibly. But I don’t care now.”

“About-” he refrained from using Tika’s name, “that?”

"Yes," Avon held his glass up and studied the liquid inside as if it were a troublesome circuit. Nodding to himself definitively, he turned back to Vila. "Have a drink."

Avon gathered Vila’s hands in his and wrapped his fingers around the glass for him, pressing their digits together tightly. Vila took a few seconds to react, shocked still, while Avon looked up at him expectantly.

Vila sipped warily.

_Gods, what the hell was this: spaceship fuel?_

"I think you should switch to water, Avon, or coffee, or you'll be on the floor before the end of the night."

"Just shut up and drink, Vila," Avon watched him intently and smiled when Vila downed the glass.

”Now, how did you do it?” Avon asked abruptly, turning on his stool to face Vila and his spread legs framed the man beside him. 

Vila winked and slid down on his elbow to whisper theatrically in Avon’s ear.

”I told her about my secret weapon. You know-”

“No I don’t. What secret weapon?” he whispered back, slapping a hand to Vila’s shoulder to steady himself.

“My tattoo!” Vila straightened up and laughed a little. “You saw it.”

“No I didn’t. Show me.”

“I can’t-”

“Why the _hell_ not?”

“It’s on my arse, Avon!”

“Oh,” Avon’s face fell. He looked around, fuzzily contemplating whether or not it would be indiscreet to drag Vila off to the men’s room for a peek of his own, when an unknown hand slid across the back of his leather tunic. He knew what was waiting for him before he even turned around; Vila had gone stiff as a board against the bar.

“Glass is empty. Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”

Avon’s shoulders sank along with his stomach. Not again; not here, not now. He’d had such a good run tonight (quiet, even without Vila), and Avon would have really much preferred to be talking to Vila right now.

“I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.” Avon spoke without turning and tried to swallow down the unbidden thrill his little lie had given him, but Vila saw him smiling like an idiot into the middle distance.

“Yeah, back off. He’s with me,” Vila declared, bolstered immensely by the giddy thrill boiling in his veins. _Avon’s boyfriend-!_ But then he looked up properly and saw the sour look on the huge, muscled man above them, and Vila knew his bravado had just come back to bite him.

“Don’t you tell me to back off-”

“Now that’s not very friendly…” Avon smirked and drawled out between slack lips, finding it all rather amusing. He turned towards the unwanted man in front of him, noting with an appreciative smile just how broad and muscly the man was. But he wasn’t Vila.

“Avon, forget it,” Vila grabbed his arm and hauled him back. “ _Let’s get the hell out of here,_ ” he whispered into Avon’s ear, one eye on the gigantic man in front of them.

“Yeah, let’s take him outside, skinny,” the man growled and Avon shot up from his stool, twisting out of Vila’s grip.

“No, Vila is no good for that,” he swayed dangerously and hiccoughed out a laugh when he felt himself pulled two ways at once. The studs on his chest popped open as he was wrestled between two pairs of hands. Vila dragged Avon away just in time to avoid a powerful punch. Pushing Avon to the ground, Vila ducked again and went for the back of the big man’s knees, kicking them in with precision. It was a dirty Delta move but it worked, and the man crumpled to the ground, taking Avon’s half-finished bottle with him. Before he could recover, Vila dragged Avon to his feet and the pair shot out of the bar.

Panicking, Vila slammed the communicator button on his bracelet as soon as they were clear of the main building, heedless of the crowds around them.

“Orac, teleport me and Avon _NOW_!”

They materialised back up to the ship and stumbled, Vila catching Avon by his open tunic and only just managing to keep them both upright by twisting his hand into the leather. Vila put Avon to rights, a hand lingering on his chest far too long, but the night was ruined and the mood thoroughly destroyed. Once again, their evening had ended with a rather abrupt anti-climax. Neither could manage a goodnight when they both stalked off to their cabins.

**********

It was late in the evening when Vila finally came to relieve Avon from watch. This late, the ship felt eerily quiet. It didn’t make all that much sense, considering Liberator’s engines and life support systems were always whirring all around them. But even on a ship with no real difference between day and night cycles, there was a quality to the “night” that made its crew act differently. Perhaps it was the human condition – to be bound by circadian rhythms even in the depths of space.

It was this unwelcome feeling that governed Avon now. And he felt something else too – a tone of desperation, a desire to bring something of Vila’s ludicrous scheme to a head. He wasn’t quite sure just what he was doing when he broke the heavy silence with his cunning little idea, but the excited fluttering in his chest felt good, and there was a lightness in his heart that he hadn’t really felt in a longer time than he cared to remember. But Avon felt giddy, and with very little risk left to playing Vila’s game now, he gathered his courage, passed a tongue over his dry lips. 

“I’ve had time to consider what you suggested.”

Vila looked up from his console and frowned, confused by Avon’s contextless admission. _What did I suggest?_ He scrambled to remember what Avon could be referring to. The previous night was a blur, and he scoured his brain until it hit him. _No, I hadn’t said that?_

“Did I suggest something?” Vila asked, his voice a touch higher than he would have liked. _But surely Avon couldn’t mean a tattoo…?_

Avon inclined his head in a smarmy, superior way and looked down at Vila.

“But I don’t want to go to that parlour again-” he continued by way of explanation, and Vila felt himself trembling. _He means it._

“You really want a tattoo?”

“Why not?” Avon shrugged dismissively and ran a hand across the front of his console. “There’s no harm in it, and if your confession last night is to be believed, it may just add the… _je ne sais quoi_ that I need… _to pull the ladies_.”

Vila blinked.

“The what?”

“Exactly.”

“You know,” Vila began but hesitated, and his stomach flipped as if he were floating in null g.

“Yes?” Avon drawled, turning up to look Vila in the eyes and the thief suddenly felt his mouth go dry and stuttered, stumbling over his own clumsy tongue.

“I used to- that is, I could stick and poke- I mean I used to do them in the Delta domes-”

“What are you talking about?” Avon snapped, but it was void of its usual sharpness.

Vila blushed and tried to wrangle his thoughts into coherence. He didn’t think it would be this hard to speak, but with Avon staring him down and clearly expecting something, he found it suddenly hard to breathe; the prospect of offering Avon his skills now seemed almost too intimate.

“I used to do tattoos, back when I was in the Delta domes – and in prison, granted – but I’ve done them before.” He felt a lump in his throat. “I did the one I showed you last night.”

“You didn’t show it to me; you showed it to your charming lady friend in the lavatory.”

 _Oh…. that’s why there were scratches across his arse cheek!_ Vila was both relieved and mildly disappointed to have solved that mystery. 

“Well, here,” Vila declared shyly.

Avon swept over as Vila pulled his waistband out and down, carefully stretching the material until he’d revealed the body and face of the plump, lazy tabby cat inked onto his arse cheek.

Avon held back a grin and took a good look at Vila’s pert, rounded arse.

“You did that yourself?” he asked in earnest and reached out, tugging Vila’s trousers out for a better view. Vila squeaked indignantly.

“Avon!” his face turned beet red and he retreated. “Buy me a drink first, geeze!”

“I did last night,” Avon replied smoothly, straightening up. “That’s very good… the cat,” he waved a hand towards Vila’s arse. “But a bit childish.”

“Ladies _love_ it,” _and the men_ , he thought guiltily.

“Why on your backside?”

“There’s more padding there. It hurts less.”

Avon scoffed.

“Of course you’d pick there.”

“You try tattooing yourself and see how far you get! It hurts, you know.”

“I’m amazed you bothered to put yourself through that at all.” Avon shrugged.

“Well, it’s an outlet, isn’t it?”

“ _Pain?_ _Vila_ , I would never have guessed it of you-”

“A creative outlet,” Vila clarified. “Not that you’d know about that.”

“Of course I do,” Avon replied immediately, enjoying himself.

“You, really?”

“I developed the detector shield, didn’t I?” Avon looked towards the central consoles. “Computers can be art too.”

“Is that what you’d get then?” Vila asked as his mind conjured up images of geometric circuit boards and old fashioned gears and cogs. He’d given a tattoo like that to someone once, a long time ago. Recalling it now, it seemed just like something Avon would want.

“What?”

“A computer tattoo, or something like it,” Vila clarified. “I saw a neat drawing of a clockwork heart once – maybe you’d like that over your chest? Like a-”

“-window to the soul, yes. How trite.” Avon’s smile evaporated. “Change the record, Vila; you’ve said it before: Avon the machine,” he rolled his eyes and turned away.

“Sorry,” Vila muttered honestly and Avon’s head snapped back up, eyes-

Vila didn’t know what the look was that flashed in Avon’s eyes then, but a wan smile nearly pulled at his lips and he saw Avon suppress it only with a surprising amount of effort. It turned into a frown.

“I- have something in mind. It should be simple enough to draw on my back-?”

And there it was. Avon, in his own roundabout way, had opened up.

If Vila could move, he would have pinched himself, but it took more than enough effort as it was just to steady his voice so when he spoke, he didn’t sound like a yammering imbecile. He wanted this, he realised with all the alacrity of a lovestruck fool, and the opportunity was now hanging in front of him ready to take.

His lips were already parted when his brain finally caught up with him, and he spoke very quietly.

“Yeah.” He gave a little smile. “’f course.”

**********

A few trinkets from the Liberator and a little kiss were all Vila needed to secure the back room of Tika’s parlour. It only took an hour to set things up, but Vila spent the late afternoon in there alone, needing the time to calm himself and soothe the nerves that he felt bubbling up in his throat every time he thought about Avon. There was little doubt in his mind that he would come tonight – Avon never broke his word – but that was it. _That_ was invariably worse than the thought that Avon would stand him up. He still couldn’t believe he’d offered to do this, and yet here he was.

Right on time, Avon appeared at the door, his boot heels clicking softly as he stopped and surveyed the room around him.

“Orac gave you my message then,” Vila stated rather superfluously.

“I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to do it,” Avon admitted with a little shrug. He stepped into the room and closed the door.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Vila bit back.

“So am I,” Avon countered.

They stood in silence for a moment before the tension was broken by a piercing _click_ and sharp cry of pain from outside. Vila jumped.

“Well,” he said nervously, gesturing at the chair between them. “Take a seat. Everything’s ready to go.”

Vila turned and fiddled with a few tools to feign disinterest with the whole situation. But when he looked back up, he was more than a little put off to see Avon still standing exactly where he’d left him. 

“Forgotten how to sit?” he laughed weakly and nudged the chair forwards with a knee. “Come on; it’s not the chair that will bite.” _Oh gods_.

Avon raised an eyebrow and reached for the chair, spinning it around gracefully by one leg and letting it come to rest facing backwards.

“I said I wanted it on my back. I assume this will be the best way to do it – unless you’d prefer me lying down?”

Gods, Vila was thankful for the neon lights.

“No, no this is good. But you might get uncomfortable-” _so take off your shirt and_ “-maybe put your tunic over the back,” he suggested quickly.

Vila wanted to watch, he really _truly_ did, but a part of him just couldn’t quite bring himself to look when Avon removed his tunic. If he had, he might have seen the look in Avon’s eyes, maybe noticed the way that, even in the neon dark, Avon’s stare had a quality to it that he’d never seen before.

18 silver studs popped open rapidly, along with the one lucky stud that got to press against Avon’s throat, and he pulled off his tunic and undershirt in one graceful twist of his arms.

The armour was gone.

Avon turned his back to Vila quickly, stepping over the chair. With one hand tugging at his tight leather trousers, he adjusted himself discretely and folded his tunic under his arms.

Vila caught it all from the mirror across the room and he almost missed his chair entirely when he went to sit down.

Avon produced a small piece of paper and passed it over his shoulder to Vila. The sheet itself was thin as tissue paper and had obviously been cut from an old book, but Vila didn’t recognise the symbols that were printed on the page.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, pulling the leaves open delicately and paused when he saw the picture on the page.

“I made a visit to the library.”

“Didn’t know they had a library here,” Vila mumbled back, but he wasn’t really listening to whatever Avon said. Instead, he was focussed on the paper in his hands. In one corner of the page, smaller than a credit chip, sat the image of a beast wreathed in flames.

Vila remembered the old English salamander well. Like a dragon without wings, resistant to fire, a parallel to the mighty phoenix that could live and die and rise again from its own ashes. _Bringer of fire_ , it had been called in the stories Vila had read as a kid; the salamander lived on in the flames of its own creation, around a world burning but never burnt itself, only to rise from the fire untouched time and again. It represented something stalwart but ever-suffering, always coming out unscathed while those around it burned… The salamander was sad, more than anything.

Vila hadn’t noticed his hand tensing until the paper crinkled in his grip and he let it go as if the picture itself had burned.

“Why did you choose that?” Vila let the picture flutter to the floor.

Avon watched Vila in the wall mirror as he picked the paper back up and pinned it to a tiny lightbox by his side. Their eyes met in the mirror then, and Avon was the first to look away.

“It doesn’t matter why.”

Really, it seemed obvious why. But Vila got the impression that Avon didn’t expect him to know what it was.

“I’m going to draw it first.” Vila pressed on and took up a pen from his tray.

Hesitantly – stupid, he knew, when he was about to have to touch Avon’s skin for _hours_ – he leaned forward and braced his arm against Avon’s back to steady his left hand. Vila copied out the picture of the salamander, drawing the pen across Avon’s skin and mimicking the gentle curves of the creature’s body, inking outlines of the bed of flames in which it sat and marking out the tiny legs that dragged it from the fire.

Vila put down the pen and leaned back to survey his work, comparing it to the image on the lightbox. It looked true enough. The salamander’s outline was simple, and the wreath of flames he’d traced around it flowed nicely up the contours of Avon’s lean back. Avon adjusted himself on the chair and his muscles shifted beneath the skin, rippling the flames to life. Even in black and white, the effect was rather striking. Vila took up the pen, drawing a few more licks of flame for good measure.

“There,” he declared rather quietly, and used his fingers to trace the outline, inadvertently smudging some of the ink. “Does that feel okay?”

In the wall mirror, Avon frowned.

“The size, I mean,” Vila clarified. “It’s the size of my hand-,” he swallowed against the butterflies in his stomach and pressed his open palm to Avon’s back for him to feel, “-more or less.”

Vila held his hand still for an age, daring to touch Avon as long as the man didn’t react, waiting for him to speak. His palm began to sweat, clammy against Avon’s hot, dry back. 

Avon nodded. 

“Do it then.”

Vila withdrew slowly and wiped his palm on his soft suede trousers before pulling on a pair of gloves. Switching on the tattoo probe, he scooted his chair forwards again until it touched the edge of Avon’s and spread his thighs to press himself as close to Avon’s back as he could without touching.

“This might hurt. Try not to move.”

Bracing his arms again, Vila touched the probe to Avon’s back, held it there a moment, and then guided it under the skin. Beneath the sharp tip, black ink blossomed out like a beautiful dark star in Avon’s space-pale flesh. Vila was impressed when he hardly flinched.

“You took that well.” Admiration, again.

“I’ve caught myself on laser probes enough times to be used to it,” Avon admitted with a subtle tilt of his head. Still, he let out a barely audible grunt as Vila began to drag the probe down his skin.

And as Vila worked, the little microcosm of the room became his whole world, reduced down to the lurid fuchsia lights, ozone smell of ink, and the touch, press and twitch of the hot white flesh beneath his hands.

Vila lost himself, slowly and surely, into the peacefulness of his task, pulling the probe through Avon’s skin, meeting the subtle resistance of sensitive flesh and drawing back from the involuntary shudders of his irritated skin. The distance between thigh and buttock closed naturally as Vila worked, and in his concentrated trance found the intimate position grew almost comfortable. His stomach pressed against Avon’s lower back, an illicit pleasure, and a small part of his brain struggled with the itch of an urge to press himself closer still. Hips shifted, lips trembled, bitten between his teeth, and he tilted his pelvis from the sculpted curve of Avon’s lower back, but found as surely as he moved away, Avon’s slouch would press him back to his crotch time and again. Vila couldn’t help his firmness and prayed it wouldn’t stick through the leather of his trousers, stretched taught as it was over his spread legs.

Four hours later, Vila switched off the tattoo probe, wet a cloth with alcohol, and cleaned Avon’s raw skin. Just like that, it was done. It wasn’t Vila’s work anymore; it was a part of Avon.

A part he’d never see again.

Vila ran a hand over the colours and pressed the ink beneath his fingers, watching the blood beneath rush away at his touch and leave white fingerprints that faded slowly. A touch, once removed, gone forever.

Vila snatched back his hand and reached for a mirror, lining it up to reflect into the one on the wall before them.

“There,” he grunted, and the declaration, monosyllabic and emotionless, rung stark to the medley of emotions constricting his chest.

Avon lifted his head from his arms stiffly, focussing on the wall mirror and Vila watched keenly, knowing Avon would be looking at the tattoo and not Vila’s own reaction.

Avon’s eyes skittered back and forth in the mirror, taking in the details of the ink in his skin, following lines and curves and colours with the same precise glare he bestowed upon Zen’s wiring. It was as if he were trying to commit every detail to memory instantly, scanning up and down the image for a long minute, all without a hint of emotion.

_Oh gods – he hates it._

All at once, Vila felt four hours of tension seep into his muscles and he dropped the mirror to his lap, gripping the frame with white knuckles-

“Vila!” Avon barked, and he ducked his head and winced, bracing for the humiliation and pain that was coming. _How could you let me do this, Avon?_ His jaw trembled and he bit his tongue to hold back a whimper.

“Keep the mirror up! I’ve sat like a statue for you and you can’t even keep still for a minute!”

“What?” Vila’s head shot up and he felt his jaw dropping open at the sight of Avon looking bemused at him. Vila brought his little mirror up again. Overflowing with nerves now the spell of silence had been broken, he started babbling.

“It’ll- fade pretty soon. The ink doesn’t stay all that fresh for long. And the lines will blur a bit, so it looks sharp now, but give it a bit of time and everything will soften. I hope you don’t mind I didn’t use much colour, but I really liked the fire and I got a bit carried away highlighting it and-”

“ _Vila_.”

That one word, spoken softly in the quiet room, tied his tongue more effectively than any yelling or swearing could ever have done. Vila croaked, caught up with a word lodged in his throat and nowhere for it to go.

“It’s good.” Avon’s eyes wandered up and caught Vila’s through long, dark lashes. “It’s very good.”

“I-” the word escaped.

“You-?” Avon asked, a little grin pulling at the side of his mouth. Vila’s eyes stung and he closed them hard. When he opened them again, he knew they were glistening.

“Thanks.”

After the exhausting effort of the last few hours, Vila was disappointed when Avon insisted they still go out. He barely paid any attention to the place Avon had dragged him. Clearly in a better mood than he had been before, Avon seemed to be instilled with renewed vigour, and he was on _fire_. A drink in each hand, he flirted with women at tables as if there were no tomorrow, hardly bothered by the sound rejections, jeers and laughter that came his away again and again. He knocked back a few advances as well, mostly from the same type of men he’d had every other night.

Vila slouched against the bar feeling grateful for the drink he was nursing – it was closer to shuttle fuel than booze, and he certainly felt like he needed it, but a part of him couldn’t quite bring himself to knock back the whole glass. Watching Avon prance around the bar was like torture, but he felt a trifle masochistic, and entertained his own wishful thinking as he sized up the prey Avon rounded on.

“Yeah, nice pins, button nose, all blonde and shallow. She’d look pretty on your arm, wouldn’t she?” he mumbled and sipped at his drink. “ _Nothing like me. Wouldn’t take notice of me even if I had legs for days and a pert little arse, would you?_ Or some great heaving breasts.” He whistled low to himself, sneering as he watched Avon take his first drink to the face. 

Avon came back after that setback, but his smile didn’t waver and Vila frowned. Something was off. Avon didn’t speak, and the smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, he seemed poised, as if waiting for something. And then _something_ awful slid up the bar.

“You here all alone?” a pretty boy, all curls and fluttering eyelashes, rested his golden head on his elbow and gave Avon a once-over that set Vila’s teeth on edge.

“Well I _was_ ,” Avon purred and leaned forward, closing the small gap between him and the boy, “but now you’re here.”

 _Oh god_ s, Vila battled with the horrified expression on his face, _he’s not-_

The boy reached for Avon’s hand and brought it up, exposing his lean bare torso for Avon to touch.

_Presumptuous little-!_

"Do I please you, Daddy?” He rubbed Avon’s hand over his ridiculously sharp, defined abs, twisting his body to make them pulse and ripple. “Will you fuck me good?"

_Gods, what is it with the men on Teira-12?!_

“That depends, my dear. _Will you be good for me?_ ”

_He’s actually falling for it…_

“I’ll be as good as you like – better even, than anyone you’ve had before.” The little upstart actually had the nerve to pass his eyes over Vila. “I _guarantee_.”

Avon’s lips split into a feral, growling smile, and he reached out suddenly to haul the boy forwards by his scruff. He pulled the material tight, twisting it until he choked.

“Do you now?”

“Yes-” he creaked out, clearly _loving_ the situation, and dropped to his knees in front of the bar stool. Avon stood, grasped the boy’s short blonde hair, and wrenched his head back.

“Yes?” his grasp tightened.

“Yes, Daddy-”

“ _Prove it._ ”

The boy surged up awkwardly to kiss Avon, and he kissed back furiously – all teeth and bites, overpowering and conquering the boy’s mouth just the way he seemed to demand it.

The blood drained from Vila’s face and he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t going to be ill. Humiliated, Vila downed his horrible drink and choked. _Damn him, damn_ himself. Vila’s stomach turned and he felt even queasier. For once, alcohol _wasn’t_ making his pain and embarrassment go away. He needed to do something to forget, and quickly, but not here. Not with-

Vila’s eyes glanced over the bar and the revolting spectacle of the boy in Avon’s arms and Vila knew he was going to be ill. _Damn Jenna, damn the whole stupid plan!_ He scrambled for the exit. There was stronger booze down the road, and prettier women, and men who could help him forget this whole night.

Avon pulled away and gasped for air, dropping the boy with a grimace, and turned back to his drink to wash out the lingering taste of vile, pouting lips. Turning, Avon realised Vila had disappeared sooner than he’d expected. He snapped his head around and abruptly jumped; he’d forgotten the stupid boy was still on the ground until an uninvited hand pressed against his crotch.

“See Daddy? I told you; I’m such a good boy. I’ll do anything you like.”

Avon snatched his wrist off him and squeezed the bones until he squealed in pained delight.

“You stay here, on the ground,” he commanded, hurling his hand down in thinly-veiled disgust. “Do. Not. Move. Understood?”

The saccharine grin on the boy’s face almost made Avon sick himself. _What a freak._ Leaving him to his own on the floor, Avon dashed into the crowd and out of the bar as fast as he could. Vila couldn’t have gotten that far.

After five nights planetside, Avon knew the lay of the lanes around them and managed to cut off Vila’s retreat by passing through an open shopfront. When he emerged on the other side and into the darkness, it was easy to spot Vila’s silhouette walking under a streetlamp, slumped and broken. Running on a surge of adrenaline, booze and courage, his heart hammered and he swooped down on Vila.

Vila jumped back, hands up in defence faster than he could recognise the man before him in the dark.

“Avon?” he gasped out and the air was knocked from him when he was thrown firmly back against a nearby wall. “What are you doing?” He squeaked out, breathing heavily, and froze at the look in Avon’s eyes. His face went blank.

“Fool me once, Vila,” Avon edged forward, pressing his chest to Vila’s. Long lines of silver studs glittered in the half-light. “Shame on you. Fool me twice?” His eyes flickered down to Vila’s lips and lingered.

“I- did,” Vila stuttered out, heart pounding in his throat. Avon smiled at that, a wicked, toothy grin, and the stud in his ear caught the light of the nearby streetlamp. Vila felt Avon’s warm breath skirt across his lips.

“Fool me three times –” a deep chuckle rolled up from Avon’s chest and Vila shivered, melting into the lips that captured his own. Avon dominated the kiss, tongue forcing past Vila’s parted lips, sucking and pulling and making Vila’s legs weak. Avon kissed with an intensity that matched- everything; his look, his manners, the clothes, the stud, the tattoo hidden beneath thin, supple leather. In twenty or so minutes, when Vila _could_ think again, he’d realise: _yes, he kisses just like Avon would_.

And the kiss only stopped sometime later when Vila realised he hadn’t breathed in what felt like _days_. He hadn’t closed his eyes – they were too wide with shock – so he was more surprised again to find that he’d shrunk down the wall, supported by Avon’s hands now his knees had totally given out. Vila’s hand came up blindly seeking his mouth, and he touched his warm, swollen lips, just to prove it had really happened.

Avon watched, the smile plastered on his face dazzling against at the darkness of his leathers. When Vila seemed capable of comprehending speech again, Avon pulled him up and leaned in once more.

“–shame on both of us.”


End file.
